Insert Coin Here
by DoctorDoctor
Summary: [Semi Parody Self Insertion] I'm stuck in a cold cell, visited by a silent man who sets his hands on fire, completely unaware of what's going on, and absolutely famished. Well, it beats taking the SATs, I suppose.
1. Chapter 1

**Insert Coin Here**

A note to the reader:

I started this, and now I'm revamping it.

It's the typical self-insertion (parody), but with a twist: I've never heard of Avatar in this story.

**Chapter One: But that's not the point!**

My name is Julie, and I'm utterly, completely, all encompassingly _fucked_.

Isn't that a great way to start a narration? "Hi, my name is Julie, and I'm about to be killed."

Like Alcoholics Anonymous. You stand up from the uncomfortably small and ridgy, squeaky grey-purple vinyl chairs, and, predictable as the sun sets,

"Hi, my name is Julie, and I'm an alcoholic."

But—as you might know—they don't have execution at dawn (or some other likely painful event I'm sure to meet in the near future) at Alcoholics Anonymous.

Hey, maybe they do. I don't expect it, but how would I know? I've never been to AA or whatever clever little anagram they use now. However, the point to this long winded digression is that I happen to be totally, completely, utterly, and, (you guessed it!) all encompassingly fucked.

Up shit creek without a paddle, if you will.

Screwed.

Shafted.

Boned.

And, for lack of any other appropriate synonyms: fucked.

I really like that word right now. It's what I'm chanting under my breath. The guard outside my (uncomfortable, let it be noted) cell seems immune to it, if not slightly perplexed.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

I told you, I'm chanting it.

My mother, the (not-so) frail, (not-so) fragile (beastly lecturing) creature that she is would have a conniption fit.

She'd say,

"Julie, stop swearing! It's unbecoming of you and is rude and disrespectful."

To which I'd reply,

"Fuck off."

Yeah, we have that kind of sarcastic, probably abusive, sisterly relationship. My mom's nuts, I'm nuts, together we drive people nuts, and then we laugh about it later.

Unless, of course, I do something that gets on her nerves, like hum ("Stop that superfluous noise! It's driving me _nuts_!"), or swear ("Julie, stop swearing!..."), or pop open a can of dad's beer when I got home from school (shocked, outraged silence), or, in general, be an obnoxious teenage bitch ("Fuck you too, baby, you're grounded.")

Maybe this is karmic payback.

I have no clue why, though.

Well, okay, so I do, and it involves pissing off my dear, sweet, fried mother off on an almost daily basis, but I swear't'god, _she starts it_.

Really, she does.

However, none of this has anything to do with my current situation. Except, perhaps, for how angry my mother would be by now from my continuous mumbling of expletives.

But it's not like that burly, intimidating, (and, quite frankly, creepy looking) guard they've posted is going to be offended by it.

Why would he?

He can't understand me.

Nobody can.

And don't think I'm going all Emo on you, not hardly. This isn't the "oh, woe is me, my life sucks" rant I save for pestering my parents.

No, no-o-o-o, no, no, no, no.

My biggest problem of all, I'd really have to say, is that nobody here, and I mean _nobody_, not even the god-damn ship cats, speak a fucking word of English.

. . .Well, the cats can't speak anyways.

But that's _not the point_!


	2. Chapter 2

**Insert Coin Here**

Dear Reader:

Go ahead and pretend I didn't go and lie through my teeth about the deadline… (I had midterms! _Don't kill me_!)

**Chapter Two: Somebody feed me! **

The point is, hell, there isn't one!

I'm just stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck, in a surprisingly clean (but really, amazingly, _incredibly _stark) holding cell.

It's dark, humid, and hot. And, for some unknown reason, I'm sitting here completely dressed. Speaking of the unknown:

Where the hell am I? and

What the hell is going on? and, most importantly…

I'm hungry… Somebody _feed me_!

Having decided I was both: a. curious, and b. confused, _and,_ c. starving, I stood up abruptly, and fell over as my legs gave out from under me. My vision blacked out from the edges inward as I swooned, crumpled to the ground with a shriek, and lay there, blind and gasping for breath.

I swore. Postural hypo-tension… my doctor was always telling me I had low blood levels because I didn't drink enough water. What did he call me?… an under-watered plant. That's it.

Well, wonderful. So my loathing of the taste of water had caught up with me. Again. This was why I was always hungry—if I didn't eat, I'd faint. But like that was a _bad_ thing?

As I raved to myself about the joyous wonders of eating, a person (Guard? Captor? Convicted sex offender?) came and checked on me, surveying me lying on the ground breathless.

My vision swam with flashing spots whilst he jangled the key into the heavy padlock (Gee, that'll make getting out of here easy. I mean, doesn't every kidnapped person want a padlock?) stepped inside, and hauled me to my feet.

He turned to the door, keeping half an eye on me as he did so (clever bastard…) and called something in a strange language.

It sounded like something oriental.

So I tried Japanese. I mean, _why not_.

"Nani?"

Not that I know enough Japanese for it to make a difference, really. But I was trying to get my bearings here.

I headed for Chinese, next, trying out the Mandarin taught to me by a Chinese friend.

No luck.

The one word of Korean I knew (ban, the pastry of the gods!) and mimed eating.

Nothing.

As for French?

Zip.

English, Spanish, Welsh, Gaelic, Italian, Portugese, Hebrew, nothing, nothing, nothing!

Hell, I even tried _Latin_, for god's sakes. Latin. What did I need to try next, Hindi?

And after being prodded by who I assumed was a ship's doctor, I heard him speak in low tones with the guard, look upward, glance at me, and resume his harried speech. By their expressions, I assumed I was in for it. Whatever "it" was.

And then one little phrase caught my ear.

"Agni—"

My attention jolted back to the conversation. Agni was a Hindi god of fire!

"Agni! _Angi_!"

They both glanced at me, sharing the expression of 'what the hell is that freako raving about?' as I started chattering.

"Okay, okay, so you can't understand me, I get it, but you know and I know one word! That's a start!"

I fished around in my pants for the tiny box of matches I kept sewn to them hem of my jeans. Oh thank _god_ for being paranoid enough to carry around medication and matches and batteries and a small flashlight. Yesyesyes! My early childhood instilled tradition of "always come prepared" (be it crayons or matches) was no longer crazy!

(Okay, so my probably fanatic fantasy world I was stuck in right now _was_, but hey: think happy thoughts!)

I ripped out the rough stitches with little effort, held up the striker box, and fished around for a match.

"Angi," I breathed once more. I struck a match and let it burn slowly, savoring the small amount of heat and the possibility of being understood here. "Agni."

I glanced around for the two men, but they had left, vanished. My pleased grin slid from my face, the match singed my fingertips, and I yelped even as I dropped the match quickly.

"Ow!"

I stomped down and crushed the match out while I shook my hand in the air, quietly chanting "ow ow ow." For extra insurance, I licked my fingers and dabbed at the quickly cooling match until I heard a small hiss as I put out the last, tiny live coal.

So there I stood once more, but now, with a bonus! Now I was in utter and complete darkness. The two men had taken with them the only torch.

"Bastards," I muttered dejectedly.

Screw thinking happy thoughts, this _sucked._

And that's when my magical fairy princess godmother popped up, granted my 3.5 wishes, gave me a sugar glazed pastry, and I got out of here, graduated Valedictorian from my highschool, and was admitted to UCLA where I was decreed Queen of the Genuises. I became a world-class surgeon and bought a 15,000 square foot house in some exotic place with good sushi and sexy male models with no greater desire than to sing corny ballads about how ugly the other was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Insert Coin Here**

Reader:

Fairy princess godmothers—buy them today at your local supermarket. (Located in the liquor aisle.)

**Chapter Three: Some things are Universal. **

Okay, so that was a day dream. It was obvious.

But it was nice. I mean, hey, who _doesn't_ love sushi. (And I will cart people off to a mental home, I swear't'god, if they dislike sushi.)

And so wrapped up in my day dream I was that I didn't notice a tiny shift from one darkness to the other as a man stepped out to my cell. In fact, it wasn't until I heard the quiet clink of key in lock that I jerked my head up and sprung out of the curled up ball that I was in.

So as he eased himself ever so slightly, I eyed him, eyes flicking head to toe with a calculating gaze. Unfortunately, I couldn't really see as it was pitch black.

Then he lit a torch—

"What the _fuck_! Your hand is on fire! Oh shit!"

I jumped up and grabbed his wrist and began trying to beat out the fire by any means possible. In this case… my sneakers. I slid one off my foot, quick as lightning, and tried to beat out the fire. It just kept _going_, though.

The smell of burning rubber made my nose twitch, and then I noticed the expression on his face, half lit by the fire light. It was one clearly screaming 'ew, the crazy girl is _touching_ me,' so I let go of his arm quickly.

"Doesn't that _hurt_?" I found myself asking, jerking my head toward the small fireball still sitting in his palm.

He seemed to get the meaning, and the fireball became larger, much larger, engulfing his arm up to his elbow. He stood there, calm, whilst I backed away, confused, and now, too hot.

It died down as quickly as it had flared up. "Okay… so the fire doesn't burn you. Does that mean it'll burn me?"

I reached for the innocent looking ball of fire that was around his entire hand now, flickering happily. Then I remembered my sneakers, and drew back my hand. I tilted my head to the side, and bit my lip gently.

"Hey, you're kinda hot," I mused.

"In fact, really, creepily hot. Creepy, considering your hand is on fire. Is that magic?"

He didn't seem to understand a word I was saying. I grinned.

"It's probably for the better, that you don't get what I'm saying. Now I can blurt out anything I want. It's kinda like being 6 again," I said, giggling.

He barked something, presumably an order.

I glanced at him pointedly.

"Like I have the slightest clue what that was supposed to mean. Prat."

He muttered something disgustedly and snorted. Small flames fanned out from his nostrils. I stared, absolutely shocked.

"You're magic. That is just, just," I stammered, momentarily at a loss for words. "amazing…"

I gazed at him silently, before sighing. "You don't get what I'm talking about. Fuck."

And so began our "conversation".

It started when he growled something in that language of his.

I replied in English that he was being a prat, and that this was pointless, and to _get me home_.

The magic fireball wielding prat got all annoyed, and repeated what he had said.

"Blah blah blah avatar!"

Honest to god. All I heard was something akin to Chinese (or Hindi? Or both?) and then _avatar_. Avatar this, avatar that, avatar avatar avatar. Well, what the fuck is avatar? Is it the online icon thingy? If so, yes, whoopee—I have an avatar! It's purple with a feather!

I, frustrated, finally got through to him.

"Fuckin' prick! Just _shut up_ _already_!"

He understood, alright, and all too well. He grabbed my shoulders and slammed me against the wall, shaking me twice, before whipping out a blade to my throat while he hissed at me in fury.

"Okay! Sorry! Sorry."

He dropped me, but I pushed up against my knees (now gelatinous, courtesy of guy who freaked the hell out of me), controlling my slide down the wall until I landed against the floor with a small thud.

Okay, I thought. Okay. Let's try not to piss him off just yet.

"Agni," I mumbled. He glanced down at me, one eyebrow raised.

"Look, we need to figure eachother out. So… do the fire thing again," I asked, pointing to his hand.

He sneered, but after some gesturing and guessing, got the meaning, flaring up the fire once more. "Agni?" I asked, pointing to the fire. He nodded, then turned on his heel abruptly and left the cell.

"What? Wait! Argh!"

Like it helped. As quickly and quietly as he came, he was gone. _Prat_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Insert Coin Here**

Reader:

A kick is a kick, and a punch is a punch, but you can't drink kicks or get a punch outta' lunch.

Objective: Guess the original (somewhat raunchy) school-yard rhyme! 

**Chapter Four: Conniption Fit**

I started keeping a mental diary.

I forgot my entries within ten minutes.

Does that defeat the purpose?

Who knows. Who cares?

Isn't it interesting that 'who knows' is a statement, but 'who cares' is a question?

Okay, so it isn't. Shit, what do you _want _from me? I've been stuck in this damn cell for_ever_! I barely know what day today is—Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Day 1, Day 3? I have no clue!

All I know is that they've finally had the fucking decency to feed me. It's not that bad in actuality, though I have to admit that I eyed the bowl of rice and tea a bit suspiciously at first.

Were they drugged?

Oh, undoubtedly.

I wolfed it down anyways.

To my utter surprise, I neither died nor fell unconscious a few hours later.

Okay, so the food wasn't drugged or poisoned.

That didn't mean it was _good_.

(Okay, it was delicious, if not a bit bland. But you know what, when you're as hungry as I was, even clothing tastes good.)

And absolutely none of this was of any comfort to me.

Once I gorged myself, (I suppose rice is one thing they can spare—there was a _hella_ lot of it) I did the one thing I knew best.

"Hello? I'd like to be LET OUT!"

Throw a conniption fit.

"Just because you idiots fed me doesn't mean I _like being in here_! I haven't seen the sun in, like, a _billion years_! LET ME OUT!"

The guard down the hall (who had returned—_joy_) growled something to me.

"Communication issues, stupid," I snarled right back to him, pressing myself against the bars to the cell's front wall.

"Commm-uuuu-niiii-caaaaa-shunnnn. Say it with me—communication. It's like communist, only you bastards don't _share_ anything, like your god-damn _deck space_!"

The guard stepped closer to the cell, closer, and then he was within arm's reach.

I slid one arm through the cell bars (they must have been made for men—my narrow arms fit through it without much work) and with strength the burly man probably found surprising, latched onto and yanked his armor's shirt-collar (and, effectively, _him_) forward with a sharp pull.

"_Listen_, _you, if you don't let me out right now so help me god_ _I'll shank you_!" I hissed.

He stared at me blankly (although he seemed to be a tad intimidated—obviously a soldier who had been raised around women) and with one large hand grabbed my wrist in a steel hold and wrenched it off him.

I scowled, relaxing my hand to alleviate the pain as he slowly crushed it. I was more than used to this—it was what many of my male friends did if I grabbed onto something of theirs (shirt, shoe, hair, wrist) and wouldn't let go.

Well, so Jake was a bit vindictive and pushed his thumb-nail into the veins of my wrist to make it hurt more.

Just like this _charming _fellow.

"Cheating sunnuva—_argh_!

My eyes prickled with tears as I let loose my ultimate weapon—the one that made any foe (usually classmates, occasionally muggers, a commonplace in L.A.) drop to the ground, writhing in pain.

I screamed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Insert Coin Here**

Ugga-whooooo!

**Chapter Five: Instinct**

No, the scream didn't accompany any attack of some kind—the scream _was_ the attack. (Even though in reality, it's more of a defensive tactic..)

You may expect me screaming not to be that fearsome.

You're very, very wrong.

I possess, when needed, an exceptionally piercing voice. A perk of being a girl, I suppose.

However, that wasn't the main reason my scream was so nasty—no, it's _far_ more than that.

I'm loud. Very, _very_ loud.

"Good lungs on 'er," the pediatrics used to say when I chattered ceaselessly throughout my check-ups.

Oh, how right they were.

I suppose it helps that I could carry a note for almost half a minute.

Some of you might say "That's nothing! Nothing! In _choir, _oh, lemme tell ya—!"

Well, it's not nothing. Especially when I let loose a scream, a brilliant, furious scream that makes my throat sore, leaves me winded, and pink in the cheeks—a _beautifully _loud, shrill scream from 2 feet away.

Immediately the guard dropped my arm and shoved me back in the cell, cringing as I probably shattered his eardrums.

But when he dropped my arm, I stopped screaming, so was that shoving business _really_ necessary?

Eh, probably.

But within a few moments, someone had burst into the room, probably expecting rape, or carnage, or _something_.

Nope. All they saw was a pissed off man trying to stop his ringing ears from throbbing.

Well, that, and me still leaning against the cell bars, holding my wrist in my icy cold hands, muttering in annoyance.

And that's how I found myself unceremoniously hauled to the top-deck of this gigantic, friggin' _huge_ metallic monster of a ship.

I laughed nervously.

Standing in front of me was the angry boy who set himself on fire!

Then I noticed the _huge_ scar on his face, cringed, rubbing the right side of my face whilst I shuddered.

"That _had_ to hurt," I remarked sympathetically. Ish.

Okay, it was more of a sarcastic form of sympathy, but hey.

Well. _Somebody _isn't too accepting of other people's compassion.

He looked angrier.

I bit my lip nervously I was escorted to the other end of the ship by my furious counterpart, who was currently stalking in front of me irately—_far _in front of me.


End file.
